


The Knuckle From Helgen

by MistaBallista



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fist fighter character, Logical consequences of punching Draugr, This is a fic based on my current run, crack? perhaps
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-05 18:41:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14624732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistaBallista/pseuds/MistaBallista
Summary: In the annals of history, the Dragonborn’s impact on Tamriel was monumental and, in a few ways, horrifying in its momentum and gravity. Bards would paint her for decades as a symbol of regal poise and control over the battlefield with a spirit founded in unflinching courage that rivaled, nay, exceeded that of Talos himself, immortalized in thousands of songs.Bards are also known to be filthy, filthy, filthy liars.





	1. When life gives you dragons, make your exit.

“Hey, you. You’re finally awake. You were trying to cross the border, right? Same as us.”

 

Valentine didn’t quite hear the Nord’s voice from the cart across her. She twitched her ears, flapping them lazily while she regained her bearings. As she took hold of her consciousness, Ralof was assaulted with a barrage of questions.

 

“Who are you? Who’s the gagged blonde with the cloak? Horse thieves? Am I going to prison? I’m too ugly for prison. Where’s that caravan leader? I’ve got some complaints about this _whole_ situation. Whe-“

 

The air was silenced by the guard’s sharp cry, “Quiet back there!” Valentine lowered her head from the reprimand. She quirked a corner of her mouth at Ralof and gestured to the guard with a shake of her head. Ralof mouthed back, _they’re Imperials_. 

 

Valentine’s expression at that moment shifted quite suddenly from one of hazy confusion to slack-jawed fear. 

She turned her head to the gagged Nord to her right. 

She turned back to Ralof. 

She turned back to the gagged Nord. 

Ulfric Stormcloak wiggled his eyebrows at her. 

She mouthed at Ralof, _No._

Ralof shrugged his shoulders at her with an overwhelming neutrality. _It happens,_ he mouthed.

 

Lokir saw an opportunity to curry favor with his captors. “Gua-ard! They’re mouthing conspiracies to each other!” he accused.

“Nobody likes a snitch, Lokir,” retorted the guard. 

 

Lokir slumped into his seat, shrinking under the glares of his fellow captives. The carriage rattled on through the gates, across the peanut gallery that had assembled in anticipation of the execution. Valentine felt disappointed. She hadn’t really explored many scenarios where her life would end in a bloody execution, but in those she’d explored, she expected there to be more guillotines and popcorn. Perhaps an effigy being burnt in the background, with some tasteful caricatures of her being waved in protest. She looked solemnly at her bindings with a bitter smile. “This…” she thought, sheepishly stepping off the carriage, “was definitely not it.”

 

“Next prisoner!” barked the captain. Valentine obeyed, stepping forward, sour smile still on her face.

The scribe besides the volatile captain chewed on his quill nervously. “What should we do, captain? She’s not on the list.” inquired Hadvar.

Valentine’s ears perked up. “Does that mean I don’t have to die?”

The captain laughed uproariously. She then turned back to Valentine and, with a friendly smile, said “No. Get on the block.”

 

Hadvar had never really been in the presence of many Khajit, but he knew for a fact he’d never heard one whimper. He’d also never really heard one speak as fluidly as that before. They all had this distinct pattern of speech that this stout Khajit woman heading off to the execution block seemed to lack. He looked upon her with some pity. He’d learned her name was Valentine Juniper-Branch. He’d have to send her remains to Elseweyr, and perhaps there she would was that A DRAGON BY MARA’S TITS-

 

Hadvar barely had a moment to screech a warning and a curse to the villagers before a gob of brimstone caved in the house behind him. Rolling out of the way, he scooped up a child and threw him behind cover and drew his sword, only to glare ruefully at it when he pointed it at the dragon. Might as well have been swinging a toothpick.

 

About fifty meters away, a Khajit woman was laughing carelessly and half-tripping on the cobblestones as she sped into a tower for cover. Valentine nearly tumbled into the tower, still laughing maniacally as the Ralof and the still-gagged Ulfric exchanged looks of contempt for the fugitive that barged in on their hiding place.

 

“Tourists,” spat Ralof.

“Mh-phhhf,” Ulfric agreed.

 

And then the dragon crashed its head into the tower.

 

All three ran out of the tower with a renewed interest in staying alive. 

 

Valentine started running towards a burning house, ducking between an alley and dodging a burning cornerstone. She skidded to the left, towards a much sturdier-looking fort that seemed to have a better chance of squaring up with a draoh no he’s right there duck duCK DUCK-

 

“Yor Toor SHUL-“

 

The khajit tucked into a horizontal roll as another pillar of fire gushed from the monster’s jaw, incinerating the stone behind her and scorching it black. She ran. She ran until she almost passed the door, at which point a pair of sweaty hands gripped her arms and stuffed her inside the building. Valentine stood anxiously as she viewed the figure that let her inside: a muscular, if awkward-looking, soldier. Valentine’s mind raced. the first humanoid who’d shown her kindness, not just protecting her from the dragon, but essentially saving her life. She’d tell this story to her grandchildren. Every future aspect of her life hinged on this moment. She had to make it poetic, Shakespearian, absolutely perfect and without flaw, so that future generations could revel in this moment.

 

“That _sucked,_ ” she breathed.

“Aye,” Hadvar agreed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Bear-ly Surviving.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valentine and Hadvar escape Helgen Keep. Valentine learns the wonders of fist-fighting, and reveals her motivation. Hadvar has a rough time keeping up with the chaotic Khajit.

“There has to be a better way to do this.”

“Shh. I’m almost through the ropes.”

“W-Hey! Careful, you almost got me that time!”

“Just a few more seconds…”

 

And, with a quiet _“clack,”_ the Khajit’s ropes were unbound. She rotated her wrist gratefully.

 

“Thanks for freeing me. I’d have preferred it if you didn’t saw the rope away with a sword, but hey, it worked, right?”

 

Hadvar nodded and returned the sword to his sheath. Valentine eyed it greedily. 

 

“Can I have a sword?”

“Mm. It’d be best to give you some armor as well. Go see if there’s anything in the chest over there that fits you.”

 

Soon, the stout Khajit woman was looking like a proper imperial soldier, except for her tail, which wiggled softly from the hole she carved into its skirt.

 

“Huh. Just my size. Fancy that.”

“How handy are you with the sword? Or do you prefer an axe?”

 

“Oh, sword, for sure,” she practically bounced on her heels. Hadvar handed her a broadsword, which she swung a few times for practice. He looked her over. She was shorter than most Khajit, but despite a layer of fat, she was as muscular as any Nord he’d seen. He nodded towards the door.

 

“Let’s get a move on.”

“Lead the way.”

 

The two entered a chamber further on, where they heard a pair of Nords talking. Valentine felt compelled to wave a friendly hand and greet her new friends, failing to notice the way Hadvar ducked at the sound of the voices.

 

“Hey there, fellow imperials! How are you on this fine dragon-oh, that’s not imperial armor.”

Indeed, it wasn’t. The Stormcloak fugitives drew their weapons as Valentine raised her sword in defense. Hadvar shook his head.

“Tourists,” he muttered, drawing his own sword.

 

Clangs of metal rang out in the room as Valentine parried the two attacker’s blows. She locked blades  with one of the Stormcloaks as the other became occupied with fighting Hadvar, who rushed in with a shoulder check to the soldier’s gut. Valentine would have overwhelmed the Stormcloak by sheer strength, but with a flick of her opponent’s wrist, her sword was thrown to the nearby fireplace. Valentine was distraught. 

 

“Sword-y, nooooooo!” she cried, holding a hand out to the blade as it became irretrievably hot in the roaring fireplace. 

The Stormcloak did not let up. Raising the sword above her head, she yelled, “Where are you looking?!”

 

Valentine turned and, following absolutely none of her instincts, sent her fist into the Stormcloak’s face. There was a rather concerning “crunch,” a splatter of blood, and then the guard toppled over in a manner that reminded Hadvar of the time he knocked a pile of lumber over in Riverwood. 

 

Valentine looked at her fist, then at the guard, then at the remaining Stormcloak. The Stormcloak looked at her, with a mixture of admiration, surprise, and a tinge of fear. This was changed to a mixture of pain, surprise, and a tinge of regret as Hadvar struck him on the head with the broad side of his sword.

 

Valentine chuckled, reaching down to loot their victims. “Isn’t attacking them from behind a little cowardly?”

Hadvar shrugged, putting the sword in his sheath again. “Isn’t rummaging through their corpses a little disrespectful?”

Valentine jangled a purse of coins acquired from her assailant’s belt. “Maybe so, but being disrespectful pays better.”

Hadvar sighed. “Where did you learn to punch like that, anyway? I haven’t seen a punch like that since my tour in Riften.”

 

Valentine pocketed another ring thoughtfully. “I was raised by a couple of Orcs who found me after a caravan raid. Back home, brawling’s like family entertainment. I had six brothers, and I was the smallest, so I always got a bloody lip.”

She flexed her bicep pridefully. “Then I started doing some push ups, and then suddenly being small wasn’t that much of a problem, as you can see.” She rose up, dusting herself off. “Actually, the reason I came to Skyrim was because of the Orc strongholds around here. I want to improve their lives, out of gratitude for my folks.”

 

Hadvar nodded his head. “Orcs are strong warriors, and good smiths, or so I’ve heard. I’ve never really had the pleasure of meeting one myself.” 

Valentine gestured her head to the exit. “Shall we?”

“Indeed. Let’s hope there’s no more interruptions.” 

…

“Are…Are you not taking another sword?”

 

“Who, me? Actually…” Valentine picked up another iron sword, and to Hadvar’s horror, began _gnawing on it_. 

 

“Hm, yep. Tastes like seven damage.”

“ _What_ ,” Hadvar whispered numbly.

 

“And this mace over here,” she said, sniffing the heavy weapon, “smells like nine damage.” She put up her hand and showed off her claws. “My claws? Twenty-two damage, son.” 

 

Hadvar was silent.

 

“Let’s just get to the exit already,” he breathed. 

 

=========================

 

Hadvar had many doubts about the Khajit’s claims about her fists’ efficiency, but when he saw her tearing through the Stormcloaks further ahead, he decided to trust her word on the matter and have a nice, hearty barrel of mead to forget what he’d seen.

 

Valentine supexed a Stormcloak gleefully, imploring her comrades to run faster.

 

Hadvar rubbed the bridge of his nose.

 

Two barrels. Two barrels of mead, and then it would be happy times again.

 

=========================

 

Hadvar personally couldn’t stand frost spiders. Too many eyes, legs, and the accursed venom. No thank you, please try another hold. He soon learned that Valentine disliked them as well. Vocally.

 

Gouts of fire sprayed from Valentine’s hands, incinerating the surrounding area, and cooking the spiders in their exoskeleton. This, punctuated by the Khajit’s own distressed chorus of “EW EW EW EW EW EW EW EW EW EW EW-” made for a tableau that Hadvar wished he could commit to canvas, were he an artistic man.

 

He settled for patting her back roughly. “There, there. You got ‘em all.”

 

Valentine huffed and panted, feeling her Magicka stores replenish slowly. “I hate spiders. Too gross to punch,” she whined.

 

“I just wish we had to fight a normal animal, like a wolf, or a saber cat, or-“

 

=========================

 

“That’s a _fucking bear_ ,” she whispered.

“Mm. I’d rather not tangle with her right now. We could sneak past, or you could take this bow, and take her out from a distance.”

“Pff, I’m no good with bows. You do it.”

“My bow arm’s no good,” he said, showing a gash on his left arm. Valentine’s eyes widened.

“Why didn’t you say you had that sooner? I could’ve healed it!”

“A true Nord never complains of injury in battle.”

 

Valentine narrowed her eyes, furrowing her brow. “Wow. I seriously don’t know what to say to that.”

 

“So what’re we doing about the bear?”

“Well, we’ve gotta sneak past. There’s no other way, is there?”

“Mm. Let’s go, then.”

…

“Easy, now, she’s still sleeping, but if she-“ Hadvar paused. “What. Are. You. Doing.”

 

Valentine was close to the Bear. Too close. Far more close than was necessary, surely. She reached out a tentative paw-hand. She-oh my God, why was she PETTING the BEAR-

 

“ _What the hell are you doing_?!” Hadvar hissed panickedly.

“Shhh, it can smell fear.” Valentine hushed him, grinning ear-to-ear. “Hadvar. Hadvar, she is so _soft_ ,” she whispered.

 

The bear yawned, exposing her stomach, to Valentine’s delight. Valentine began to pet the bear’s velvety stomach, eliciting a contented yawn from the bear. Valentine cooed, “who’s a good girl? Who likes belly rubs?” The bear growled softly.

 

Then it roared. 

 

Valentine would’ve paled if she weren’t covered in fur, and Hadvar would’ve sworn if he hadn’t yelped. After a short fight, Valentine walked to the exit of the cave, Bear pelt on her shoulders and the sound of Hadvar’s intense scolding still ringing in her ears.

 

=========================

 

Finally, out of the cave. Hadvar stretched his arms and breathed in the crisp mountain air. He was traumatized by what he’d seen, sure, but it would make a fantastic story. And the Khajit…She was erratic, and had many eccentricities, but she was a formidable fighter, even unarmed. With some discipline…

 

“Say, Valentine? I know the empire threatened to execute you without any just trial. I’d be infuriated with that myself, and I can understand if you hated us,” he began, “but we could use a fighter like yourself in the Imperial army. Every moment we waste with the Stormcloaks, the more Skyrim is going to twist itself apart. You have the makings of a great hero, and I would be honored to fight with you in a battlefield again.” He bowed slightly. “In the meantime, I’m sure your help today will be more than enough to pardon any crime you committed. I’ll speak to my higher-ups, but…consider joining us, alright?”

 

Valentine nodded, sitting down on a nearby rock. She looked at the sky. “To be honest, I’d heard of the civil war here, but I never planned to get involved. I guess I’ll see what I have to do in the future, and hey, maybe we’ll meet again some day.”

 

The two shook hands and smiled. Valentine looked around again.

 

“So, anything I should know before I head off to who knows where?”

“Ah, there’s a village nearby called Riverwood. I can guide you there, if you’d like.”

“Mm. Tempting, but I’ll have to decline. I kind of wanna wander around a little first. Do some tourist stuff, right?”

“I see. Well, if you’re looking to do something “tourist-y,” there’s a place over there which has some pillars called “Guardian Stones.” Might want to check it out regardless.”

“Alright, I’ll go that way. Thank you for everything, Hadvar.”

“Such is my duty, Khajit. Goodbye.”

 

Valentine began to trek down the hill. Such a friendly boy. Even now, he was waving goodbye. Valentine waved back. He waved with both arms. Valentine chuckled, and waved in kind. He started to point downwards aggressively, still waving. Huh. That was a new one. It almost looked like a warning.

 

“What does _that_ mean?” Valentine wondered out loud.

“Probably that you picked the wrong day to get lost, friend,” said the bandit behind her.

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Up, down, all around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valentine gets lost wandering around, and has to ask for directions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, heads up, there's a little bit of graphic violence description to introduce the Thalmor in the fifth part (the lines of ========.) Please be advised.

“So, first I have to sell most of my belongings to be able to even afford passage to Skyrim with one of the border caravans. Then my ride gets ambushed by the Imperials-not a bad lot, but awful big on execution without trial, y’know?”

 

“Oh, yeah. I had a cousin go out that way.”

 

“Really? I’m sorry to hear that. Well, I get thrown on a caravan with Ulfric freaking Stormcloak, and some other guys, one of whom is _definitely_ dead now, and we saunter into town for the execution, right? Then a freaking dragon attacks us, I almost get torched _twice,_ and then I have to fight my way out of Helgen Keep with one of the people that sentenced me to death.”

 

“That’s rough.”

 

“I know, right? And then after that, I get attacked by a smelly, greasy pile of bandits. No offense.”

 

“None taken.”

 

“But yeah,” Valentine sighed, shrugging her shoulders. “That’s what I’ve been up to.”

 

“That’s quite the ordeal. I promise, if I’d known you had all of that going on,” the bandit wheezed, “I’d have never tried to attack you.”

 

Valentine shifted her weight on the bandit she was using as a seat. “Hey, thanks. Y’know, you guys are pretty alright, once you get past the initial layer of sleaze.”

 

The bandit looked up hopefully. “So you’ll let me go?”

 

The Khajit smiled sweetly at the bandit, and whispered, “No.”

 

A loud crack rang out through the forest, and Valentine was on her merry way.

 

=========================

 

The guardian stones were, in a word, breathtaking. Their surfaces, carved with the constellations dedicated to different arts and skills, were rugged, but had nonetheless survived the wear of decades of erosion. One could spend hours admiring the scenery of the site, its cliff overlooking a peaceful river where salmon swam freely.

 

Valentine jogged to it, slapped the warrior stone without stopping to rest, and then kept jogging.

 

=========================

 

“Okay, Hadvar said Riverwood was ‘nearby…’” Valentine wondered aloud. She furrowed her brow at the map before her, a bundle of flat sticks which had geographical details carved into them with a heated metal tool, which she had pilfered from one of the Stormcloaks in Helgen Keep. Near a dot that said “Helgen” sat a small dot that read “Riverwood.” It followed the mountain stream from the guardian stones to the East, where a small island divided the flow of water. 

 

Valentine looked to her left.

 

She looked to her right.

 

She looked at the sun to discern where “East” was.

 

She looked at an ant crossing the boulder she was sitting on.

 

Valentine calmly held out her index finger and her thumb in an “L” shape, cast flames, and incinerated the map. 

 

“Thinking won’t get us anywhere,” she huffed, and dusted herself off. She started jogging on the nearest trail she could find.

 

=========================

 

Kerell Fireleaf was a bandit, and an old one at that. And one doesn’t grow to be an old bandit by charging headfirst into battle, no sir. You hang back at the camp, sneak away when the others charge, come back to loot their bodies, and then join another group a few weeks later, rinse and repeat.

 

Right now, he was reclining in one of the tents from his current bandit camp, having piled the different sleeping bags together to make a luxurious stack of fur which was, frankly speaking, the closest approximation one could hope to get to a mattress as a bandit. The corpses of his previous crew, outside and picked clean already. Life was good.

 

He took a nonchalant bite of an apple, before his repose was interrupted by loud cursing from outside his tent.

 

“What the hell, you guys _again_?! This is the third time I’ve passed you idiots! I should’ve asked you for directions when you were alive!”

 

Kerell choked on his apple.

 

“Eh? Wait, there wasn’t smoke over in the campfire before…”

 

He could feel every fiber of his being tense.

 

“Hey, this tent…”

 

Kerell felt something deep inside him twist and _clench_.

 

The tent’s roof was torn open.

 

“Oh, good, I missed one!”

 

Kerell began to flee, but the stout woman grabbed the scrawny elder by the scruff of his collar.

 

“Now, my good sir,” Valentine grinned maliciously, “which way to Riverwood?”

 

Another invaluable skill that allows one to grow old as a bandit is the ability to think quickly and, when necessary, lie out of you rear end. “That way,” he pointed North, “turn left on the tenth tree and then take a right when you see a big rock; there should be a path. It might take a while.”

 

Valentine dropped the octogenarian, mumbled a quick thanks, and jogged on.

 

Kerell decided to pack everything he could carry from the camp and take off in the opposite direction, his spindly legs knocking together freely as he sprinted. She’d be back once she realized he’d given her wrong directions, and boy oh boy.

 

She’d be mad.

 

=========================

 

Valentine had some trouble finding the “Big rock,” but she eventually found the path that lead up the mountain. She hiked briskly, taking in the dry air of the mountain. The Orc stronghold she was raised in was on a similar slope, and the air was always thinner there. Her nostalgia was quickly shaken by a scene that could not be ignored.

 

“What happened here?…” She breathed.

 

There was a large statue of a man with a sword piercing the head of a monster, one Valentine could not recognize. An axe-shaped idol sat in front of it, and draped upon it was the scorched remains of a woman in a priestess’ robe, apparently having protected the idol with her own body. There were other members of a congregation scattered around: one was clearly burnt charred; another, thorax marred with the dynamic tissue damage of a lighting attack. The final pair of corpses, one dressed in the garb of a priestess and the other, dressed in a black robe, were on the ground in front of a pew. Both had daggers in their hearts, but the woman’s body was in much worse shape, with several slowly melting icicles buried in her legs and arm. 

 

Valentine investigated the black-robed figure, a high elf. The lack of magical damage on his body suggested he’d been the one to attack the congregation, and she searched through his pockets. 

 

She found a piece of parchment tucked in an inner pocket. Unfolding it, she read that the High Elf was part of an organization known as the Thalmor. He’d been on an investigation to find a Talos shrine, which she presumed was the scene of the massacre. She stared at the corpse in contempt, taking his enchanted robes to sell.

 

“I don’t know if this is the path to Riverwood,” she panted, “and I don’t know too much about this ’Talos’ guy…”

 

With a kick, the high elf’s body was sent tumbling down the cliff.

 

“But these Thalmor guys sound like _assholes._ ”

 

=========================

 

“Maps.” Spat Valentine through a mouthful of salmon. “I freaking hate maps.”

 

She rotated the inked leather that served as the bandit’s treasure map left and right. Okay, so there was the river where she was right now, and there was the waterfall nearby. 

 

She looked to the cabins in the distance. That…might be Riverwood? Who knows at this point, she thought. Well, the map very clearly showed a river, so that’s where she decided to look for the chest. “Although…” she chewed thoughtfully on the salmon in her mouth. “It’s probably not likely they actually left the chest _in_ the river…” She squinted her eyes at the map. She looked at a log in the near distance.

 

“If you look real hard, the blobs on the map kind of look like that log over there.”

 

=========================

 

“And that’s when you found the treasure?” Hadvar asked, handing a mug of hot spiced wine towards the shivering Khajit.

 

“I know. I didn’t expect it to work, either,” Valentine shrugged.

 

“Thanks for letting me stay with your relatives, by the way,” she added, huddling closer to the fire.

 

“Well, you were curled up in a ball next to a big log and nearly dying of hypothermia from being in the river so long.”

 

“Yeah,” she gratefully sipped the wine. “I’m not sure why I thought I could get away with that.”

 

 

 

 

 


	4. If Someone Sells You 26 sharpened iron daggers then maybe it's your fault you don't have any money

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valentine hangs out with her new friends in Riverwood and learns the magic of hitting metal with something heavy until it does what you want. Lucian makes bad financial decisions. Jarl Baalgruf "Baller" the Greater makes his appearance.

Valentine scratched her belly lazily while waiting for the forge to heat up. She crossed her legs for the third time since she’d gotten down, and observed the bricks of iron slowly melting into a shining pool. She turned her head to Alvor, who was diligently sharpening an axe against the grindstone. 

 

“So, why did you think it was necessary for me to learn how to smith? I’m a Khajit. We don’t _do_ smithing.”

 

Alvor wiped off the sweat at his brow with his coarse apron. “You may be a Khajit, but you’re also an adventurer, from the looks of it, and adventurers need funds. There’s always money to be made at the forge. And,” he paused, “the steel you buy can only get you so far. A grindstone’s handy, when you need a sword to cleave that much better.”

 

“I don’t use swords.”

 

“Axes, then.”

 

“Guess again.”

 

“Ah, you’re the kind of lass that enjoys swinging a Warhammer. I should have guessed, from your frame.”

 

“I’m flattered, but really, I just punch things.”

 

“Ah,” Alvor nodded, sliding his thumb across the axe’s edge. “The old-fashioned type.”

 

“And here I thought I was a trend-setter.”

 

“Not to mention,” Hadvar added from a nearby window, “What kind of person who lives in an orc stronghold can’t smith? It’s just sad.”

 

“Huh. Roasting me with my own culture. Pretty bold move for a Nord imperial.”

 

“In any case,” Alvor continued, “It’s a long way back to Whiterun. It’s no good if our courier gets killed by the first mugger what sees her.”

 

Valentine looked at the container full of molten metal. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. Now, what to I do with this-“ Valentine dropped her voice to a whisper—“strangely delicious-looking,“ and back to normal— “liquid?”

 

Alvor looked at the molten iron and nodded. “Grab some leather and buckles. I’ll show you how to make plates and fit them. Hah, I’ll make a decent blacksmith out of you in no time!”

 

=========================

 

That night, Alvor fell asleep to the sound of the forge being used well into morning, and paid it no mind.

 

He would come to regret this decision.

 

=========================

 

He awoke late the next day, to the sound of furious knocking upon his door. Stretching and yawning, he opened it only to find an incensed Lucan Valerius outside his door, holding an oddly-bundled sack.

 

“KNIVES!”

 

Alvor blinked.

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

“WELL, IT’S A START!”

 

“No, er, what seems to be the problem, there, Lucan?”

 

“Your quote-unquote _apprentice_ just sold me the biggest pile of knives and leather helmets I’ve ever seen! I’m down to five septims and change from the sheer amount!” He wiggled the sack, apparently full of knives, for emphasis, which created a soothing rattle.

 

“I don’t have an apprentice.”

 

“Oh, don’t be coy! The Khajit woman your family sent to Whiterun!”

 

“She made all this? When?”

 

“Last night, apparently. She waltzes in to my store this morning, dumps these on my counter, and _of course_ I have to accept, never mind the economy value of-“

 

Alvor cocked his head. “You had to accept? Why not turn her down?”

 

Lucian snorted. “I’m a trader. It’s what I _do_.”

 

=========================

 

Valentine skipped down the cobblestone road to Whiterun, her bag of septims jangling in tune to her singing.

 

“Row row row your boat, gently down the stream! Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, smithing’s pretty neat!”

 

=========================

 

Valentine took a deep breath and marveled at the sight before her. “Wow! Is this Whiterun?”

 

“Er, no,” said a nearby field hand who cowered behind a tall ear of corn. “Whiterun is that city over there with the large walls.”

 

“Oh, I see.” She turned her attention to the nearby spectacle where four warriors fought off a massive humanoid.

 

“What’s that over there, then?”

 

“That would be a giant.”

 

“Oh.”

 

There was a large crunch.

 

“Which is to say, that _was_ a giant.”

 

“Yeah, he’s not going anywhere.”

 

Valentine looked at the squad who’d dispatched the creature.

 

“Who’re they?”

 

“The companions. Pride of Whiterun and residents of Jorrvaskr. They’re kind of a big deal.”

 

“Huh.” Valentine flapped her ears. “Maybe I should look into that at some point.”

 

And then she kept walking and forgot completely about the Companions until roughly two months later.

 

=========================

 

Valentine tapped on the guard’s shoulder. “Excuse me, what do I have to do to see the Jarl?”

 

“Oh, well, it’s right down the street, then you take a left at the market and follow the stairs,” the guard pointed.

 

Valentine nodded and flipped a Septim at the guard. “Ah, thanks. Have a mead, on me.”

 

The guard was going to scratch his head, but his bucket-like helmet prevented him from doing so. He waved goodbye as Valentine trotted off towards Dragonsreach.

 

Another guard approached his friend. “I didn’t know a Khajit was coming here. Must’ve sweet-talked the gatekeepers or something.”

 

“Mm. I wonder what she wanted with the Jarl.”

 

“Here for the Jarl, was she?”

 

“Aye.”

 

“And you told her where he lived?”

 

“Aye.”

 

“Despite the fact that we’ve had five assassination attempts in two months?”

 

“Irileth can handle her.”

 

“Irileth is out on a mead run for tonight’s party.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Should we stop her?”

 

“Eh, the Jarl is pretty good in a fight. I mean, what’s she gonna do, shout him to death?”

 

“Too soon, man.”

 

“Ah, sorry.”

 

=========================

 

…”And that’s when they tried to kill-er, um, dispatch me. With, ah, extreme prejudice.”

 

Jarl Baalgruf the Greater shifted his weight and straightened his posture marginally. “Was that before or after the Stormcloaks in the keep attacked you?”

 

“Yes-uhm, I mean,” Valentine babbled. She drooped her shoulders. “Actually, a lot of things have been trying to kill me. It’s a-uh, problem.”

 

“Well, thank you for notifying me about Riverwood. My guards should arrive soon.”

 

Valentine nodded. “Thank you, Lord- uhh, Jarl? Forgive me, I don’t know the proper honorifics.”

 

“Jarl is fine,” Baalgruf replied. 

 

Valentine fidgeted with a buckle on her armor, flapping her ears. She was irreverent and boisterous, sure, but in strongholds, everyone was in one way or another family. She didn’t realize how inadequate she felt addressing the Jarl until she actually entered the lavish palace. She wanted to itch her nose, but limited herself. Scratching yourself is disrespectful, right? Or it’s a sign of weakness, or something. 

 

“Actually, with your firsthand experience with Dragons, I may have another task for you, if you feel so inclined,” the Jarl tilted his head.

 

“Y-yes!” Valentine squeaked, shocked out of her train of thought.

 

“Excellent. Come with me, then. I need you to see Farengar. And, tell me,” he rambled, rising from his throne, “what do you know about barrows?”

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valentine heads out to Bleak Falls barrow, with some new spells in tow.

Valentine looked at the rather scrawny wizard sizing her up as the Jarl briefed her about the barrow. 

 

“The barrow itself sits at the top of a mountain. My advisor’s been giving me reports of a bandit group hanging around there, so be on your guard. The Draugr aren’t the only trouble you’ll find.” He turned to the wizard. “Farengar, I must attend to my duties. Finish preparing her for the job.”

 

Farengar coughed. “Thank you, my Jarl. I can guide her from here.” He waited patiently until the Jarl was out of earshot before drooping his shoulders and slouching onto his chair. He looked at Valentine disdainfully now, his eyes being somewhat obscured by his mage’s hood.

 

“Another meathead from the wilds. Just what I needed. I’d explained to the Jarl I needed a scholar with a guard to secure the tablet, but nooooooooo, a sell sword who doesn’t know a tablet from a talisman is just fine, Farengar! It’s not like this happened with five other divine tablets, Farengar! I’m sure this one’s different, Farengar! Good grief, I’ve had enough of you.” He leaned back further slightly. “Fortunately, you at least seem to be somewhat competent. Listen, just bring me the tablet in one piece, and we should get along famously. Understood?”

 

...

 

“Right. Now,” he said, signalling to a nearby map, “The barrow is over here. Take this path here, and you should find yourself there soon enough. Relatively speaking. Now, off you go.”

 

…

 

“Erm…Do you plan to stand there all day? Do you need water or something? Ooh, did you contract Rockjoint Fever? I’ve been looking for a new test-errr, patient.”

 

…

 

Valentine snapped to attention. “Oh, sorry, were you saying something? I got distracted by your massive, massive sideburns.”

 

Farengar remained silent. He buried his head into his hand, and neatly pointed out the door. 

 

“Just go.”

 

=========================

 

Belethor grabbed a set of dusty, purple tomes from a shelf. He swiped them clean, and presented them to his newest customer.

 

“It’s not quite as much as what Farengar’s got, but it’ll do. Which ones strike your fancy?”

 

“Hmm. I’ll take this, this, that, and this.”

 

“Alright, that’s one copy of Summon Familiar, one copy of Wrestling for Fun and Profit, one copy of Firebolt, and a copy of Sparks. Anything else?”

 

“No, that’ll do.”

 

He started marking down the items in his inventory parchment, and calculating the cost. “That’s a steep fee, ma’am. Do you have the cash?”

 

Valentine raised a worrisomely full sack, labeled “DAGGER MONEY,” in front of Belethor.

 

Belethor raised an eyebrow. “A’ight.”

 

As they counted the money, Belethor started to wonder slightly about his customer.

 

“Say, why couldn’t you buy spell books from Farengar? Just about anyone can go into Dragonsreach to talk to him.”

 

“He kicked me out because I talked trash about his massive, massive sideburns.”

 

“I…see. Alright, that should cover it. Have a nice day.”

 

“Thanks. See you soon!”

 

“Yep, do come back.”

 

Valentine exited the store. Belethor picked up a mirror and started patting the sides of his head. Sigurd, who was sweeping the hearth in the back of the shop, stared inquisitively. 

 

“Erm…Belethor, why are you touching your hair like that?

 

“Sigurd…are my sideburns too big? Like, Farengar big?”

 

Sigurd decided to keep sweeping.

 

=========================

 

Kerell Fireleaf was a bandit, and an old one at that. And one doesn’t grow to be an old bandit by throwing down with a 200-pound Khajit woman who tore your camp apart three hours ago, no sir. You give her wrong directions just so you can get the hell out of there, make it to the first high ground you see, and then join up with the next group of sorry idiots, rinse and repeat. 

 

Right now, he was leaning over the edge the bandit-occupied watchtower outside Bleak Falls Barrow. Kerell fidgeted his bow, stretching his wrist. He wasn’t as young as he used to be, and his bones ached from guard duty. Even so, among the smattering of bandits that had ventured inside, he had the best eyes around, and could spot trouble coming from a mile away. So, naturally, they put him as watchman.

 

He scratched his head lightly, giving the surrounding area a thorough ogling. He squinted-there was something shaking the bushes, further down the road. He focused his vision, only to see a hint of a furry tail making it’s way up the mountain. He felt his heart stop for a solid three seconds.

 

“No,” he whispered.

 

He turned on his stool, boring holes into his shoe with his suddenly vacant stare. He hoped for a moment. He turned his stare towards the trail up the mountain in trepidation. Perhaps he was mistaken.

 

He was met with the unmistakable sight of a 200-odd pound Khajit woman brusquely jogging up the mountain trail in banded iron armor. Kerell turned back around.

 

He breathed in.

 

He breathed out.

 

He screamed soundlessly at his lap, in fear and in frustration, before coming to a resolution.

 

“I need to get out of the bandit game. It’s bad for my heart.”

 

He heard the distinct sound of someone being punched unconscious from the first floor.

 

Thinking on his feet, Kerell opened a nearby barrel, crawled inside, and decided to stay there until the next Oblivion Crisis. The barrel was safety. The barrel was happiness. The barrel was all that was good and righteous in this terrible, terrible world.

 

He heard yelling and heavy, meaty thwacks. 

 

The barrel smelled bad.

 

=========================

 

Valentine munched an apple thoughtfully while leafing through her recent purchases. The outside of the barrow was quiet now, thanks to some new grappling attacks she’d learned, courtesy of Wrestling for Fun and Profit, which proved to be quite the entertaining read, with many graphic diagrams and visual aids. In particular, one bandit lay close by, having been suplexed into a pile of snow, who had provided Valentine’s current snack.

 

 The spell tomes were much more difficult to read. This was partly because of their heady content, but it was mostly due to the fact that they seemed to combust spontaneously the moment Valentine tried to read them. It had come as a rude shock when the “Conjure familiar” spell tome she’d only opened moments ago vanished in a puff of smoke. Despite this, she felt immensely enlightened by this interaction, and found that she could perform the spells afterwards easily.

 

Valentine felt like questioning this, if only a little bit, but decided that some mysteries of the universe were better left un-poked.

 

She rolled her shoulder and focused her Magicka flow towards her hand. With a flourish, she cast “Summon Familiar.” A purple sphere, heavy with vapor and the scent of ether, flashed in front of her as the sound of chains restraining the celestial creature to the mortal plane rang out. Before Valentine stood a powerfully built wolf, easily reaching her waist, seemingly built out of a ghostly energy. 

 

“Puppy!” She exclaimed gleefully, burying her nose in the apparition’s coarse fur. The wolf wagged it’s tail. Valentine grinned, cooing at the large animal. “Who’s a good dog? Who’s a gooooooood dooooooooog? It’s you! It’s you!” The dog grinned, and began to lay down so Valentine could scratch it’s belly.

 

Delighted, Valentine began cooing incoherently, in a sickly-sweet tone that would put sugar to shame. She would continue this intense petting session for over two hours before renaming the spell “Summon Puppy.”

 

=========================

 

Two bandits, crouched in a surprise attack position beside the barrow’s entrance, peeked at the stout Khajit doting on her new familiar.

 

“She’s…petting a ghost wolf.”

 

“What the hell…”

 

“Should we attack her now?”

 

“Are you crazy? Randy and Olaf both tried to take her out at once, and now Randy’s never gonna be able to bend over again. No, we definitely gotta ambush her.”

 

“Where the hell did she even come from? What happened to Kerell? He was supposed to be on guard duty!”

 

=========================

 

Meanwhile, the old man in question laid huddled in the same barrel he’d been in for the past two hours.

 

Kerell let out a rattling sigh.

 

“I miss my life outside the barrel.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...But the fic refused to die.
> 
> Sorry it's been a month, but I'm still trying, dammit! I'm gonna finish this! I'll bite my fingers into cooperation if I have to!

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm gonna try doing this as a Summer project aside from some other stuff. It's a fun way to practice writing, and making what is essentially a magical wrestler fighter in Skyrim should be a pretty fun read. So, fair warning, I'm a complete failure at understanding the more extensive lore in TES, so if a character flubs some stuff, or I accidentally call "Tuesday" "Tuesday" instead of Tirdas, please have some patience. I have some ?kinda? ambitious ideas for where I want to take this, but regardless of destination, I hope I can make you laugh.


End file.
